Just a Beggar
by Camberleigh Fauconbridge
Summary: "They live to die, Antoine." Enjolras remembers his mother's view on beggars as he is given the opportunity to help Éponine or walk away. But Patria will not let him abandon the ideals of the Cause. A character study of Enjolras. Not exactly Enjonine. One-shot.


DISCLAIMER**:_ Les Misérables_ and its musical counterpart are the property of Victor Hugo, Cameron Mackintosh, Claude-Michel Schönberg, Alain Boublil, Herbert Kretzmer, Trevor Nunn, John Caird, all of the casts and all of the creative teams that have produced any production of _Les Misérables_. No money is being made from this story, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.**

AUTHOR'S NOTE**: This isn't about a certain actor. This isn't even really any specific version. This is about Enjolras's ideals. And it's not really É/E.**

* * *

One warm, early summer day, Enjolras was walking to the Sorbonne when he was stopped by a beggar. The beggar called out for alms, stretching out a thin, dirty hand.

All at once, Enjolras was forcefully reminded of a time many, many years before.

It had been when he was still young enough to believe whatever a parent said as fact, as truth. It was when he was still living with Marseille with his parents, when he didn't have any of the ideals he had now. His mother, Mme. le marquise of Marseille, had shown a rare burst of warmth towards her only son and accompanied him on an outing to the large city park, along with the family's governess.

They were walking around a fountain when an old man dressed in what could barely be called rags approached them. The beggar said in a wheezy, tired voice, "Could you spare a _sou_, madame?"

Mme. Enjolras gave the man a hard, icy stare that left no room for pity. "Come along, Antoine," she said to her son, and left the man standing by the fountain.

Her meaning could not have been clearer, even if she had verbally refused.

For a long while, he did not say a word as they went back to the family's spacious townhouse. Finally, he ventured to say, "Why didn't you give the man any money, _maman_?"

His mother looked shocked.

"You know why, Antoine."

He was confused. "But he looked hungry to me, _maman_. If—"

"If we had given him the _sou_ he wanted, he could have spend it on drink or—" She checked herself, as if realizing she was speaking to a young boy. "He wouldn't have spend it on food. I can guarantee it."

"But—"

"Antoine, listen to me." His mother was suddenly firm. "People like that beggar are poor because that's how they were made. They get sick and starve and die. There are thousands of people like that man— we can't help them all. If that man dies, there will always be someone just like him. They live to die, Antoine. I'm sorry it sounds harsh, but that is the truth of it. He's just a beggar. It's nothing to worry about."

He was confused, because he had seen something that almost could be called desperation in the old man's eyes. Surely—

But his mother was right; she had always been right. Beggars would rob you blind if you gave them the chance. Hadn't he seen people just like the old man, lining the streets? If the old man died, it wouldn't make any difference in the grand scheme of things.

After all, it was _just a beggar_.

A voice broke through Enjolras' memory, low and rough around the edges. "A _sou_, monsieur?" He had heard that voice, somewhere. As the light focused, he recognized the dark hair, the tanned skin, the mica eyes that dared him to laugh at her pitiful state. Éponine, Marius' shadow.

_A sou, monsieur?_

"_Could you spare a sou, madame?"_

Éponine was _just a beggar_. There would always be someone like her. This girl did not matter. Her life was a good as worthless because she was of the lowest class possible. In the eyes of society, she was hardly good enough to be even considered human.

Enjolras ought to walk away, ignore her, go on with his life and forget about her. After all, she did not matter.

But— she _did_ matter.

She mattered because why else of her class would be interested enough to occasionally come to the meetings? Why else would listen to every word with an intensity that surpassed even some of the actual members, and pester Marius for explanations afterwards? Why else would give him hope that _someone_ was listening, that _someone_ cared about a republic?

"Are you coming to the meeting tonight?" Enjolras said as he pressed a _franc_ into her hand.

His mother's voice echoed in his mind. _Antoine, she's just a beggar!_

_And you're just a marquise._


End file.
